Opinions

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Women’s autonomy is fundamental in the fight for queer justice

A recent Alabama Supreme Court ruling deemed frozen embryos to be children under state law. This led most clinics in the state to immediately halt in vitro fertilization (IVF) due to fears of legal repercussions under Alabama’s Wrongful Death of a Minor Act. This ruling is just one in a series of attacks on reproductive rights in the United States that affects both queer and heterosexual people aspiring to parenthood.

The ruling also compounded existing inequalities in access to fertility treatment faced by queer women, single women and transgender men, in particular. A 2023 Human Rights Watch investigation found that heterosexual couples are covered by at least three major U.S. insurance companies’ fertility policies, while lesbian couples face significant hurdles and must demonstrate multiple failed rounds of self-funded fertility treatments to qualify for coverage. In what one woman aptly described as a “queer tax,” this makes fertility treatment cost up to $30,000 more for queer couples. 

Discrimination against queer and single women who want to start and protect their families is a global issue. 

In Japan, parliament recently considered a draft law that would restrict access to fertility treatment to women who have a husband, explicitly discriminating against single women and lesbians. In both the U.S. and Italy, the authorities have taken steps to remove non-gestational lesbian mothers from their children’s birth certificates. In February 2023, an Oklahoma court removed Kris Williams from her son’s birth certificate, ruling the sperm donor is the child’s second legal parent. In an eerily similar attack on queer motherhood, a state prosecutor in Italy ordered the cancellation and re-issuance of 33 birth certificates of lesbian couples’ children in January 2023, removing the non-gestational mother. Though a court ruled in March 2024 that the government could not simply remove women from their children’s birth certificates, a similar case in Milan indicates that a precarious, back-and-forth legal battle may ensue.

Despite the barrage of bad news and court cases, the British government committed in 2022 to a 10-year strategy to end discrimination against “female same-sex couples” seeking fertility services. This change, thanks in large part to queer women’s activism, would remove the requirement that lesbians seeking publicly funded fertility treatment prove infertility by self-funding 12 rounds of artificial insemination, including 6 in a clinical setting. Doing so has historically cost lesbian couples around £26,000 – yet another queer tax – while heterosexual couples could prove infertility by simply attesting to having had two years of unprotected sex. The strategy does not, however, define “same-sex” or “couple,” leaving it unclear if those in civil partnerships, as well as transgender, non-binary, and gender non-conforming people qualify. It is also silent on the treatment of single women. 

The lack of policies around the globe to protect single and queer women who wish to become parents points to the grim reality that many rights – parental and otherwise – are still allocated to women based on their proximity to men.

Doctors in several U.S. states still ask women for “spousal consent” before performing hysterectomies. Almost half of countries limit women’s property rights, and 44 countries prioritize sons in land inheritance, meaning that a woman’s only path to generational wealth is often through a husband. To add insult to injury, even for women who do marry men, more than 100 countries still deny them the right to inherit their husband’s land. Several countries allow fathers to prevent unmarried daughters from traveling abroad, and some ask women to produce evidence of a male guardian’s “permission” to rent an apartment.

A lesbian activist in Kyrgyzstan told me she was coerced into marrying a man at 19 and wasn’t allowed to move out of her parents’ home until then. Paradoxically, she explained, “there is no path to freedom if you don’t marry a man.”

Around the world, attaching oneself to a man legally, financially, and socially is a prerequisite for a host of rights.

It would be easy to assume that fertility treatment is a privileged woman’s issue, something lesbian and trans activists would only advocate after they had achieved other, more seemingly foundational LGBTQ+ rights. Traditionally conceptualized, this would include the decriminalization of same-sex conduct and marriage equality. However, in interviews I conducted across 26 countries, I found that queer women raised fertility, parental rights, and women’s rights in custody battles as often or more than they did police abuse, criminalization, marriage equality, and employment discrimination.

Lesbians in Kenya and Malawi, two countries without marriage equality and where same-sex conduct is a criminal offense, told me that having children and protecting their rights as legal guardians was “what kept them up at night.” They questioned not only why their ability to become parents was dependent upon marrying a man but also why it had to follow a normative LGBTQ+ rights advancement ladder.

Governments should reform discriminatory fertility laws, introduce anti-discrimination legislation, and remove disproportionate barriers to accessing reproductive treatments. States should also abolish laws that prevent single women and unmarried couples from adopting, and pass queer-inclusive parental recognition bills that explicitly recognize the legal parenthood of non-gestational lesbian parents. 

As LGBTQ+ advocates and allies globally, we also need to center women’s autonomy, including advocacy on behalf of single women, in the struggle for queer justice. The LGBTQ+ rights advancement playbook, as we normally speak of it, doesn’t tell the whole story for queer women.

Erin Kilbride is a researcher with the LGBT rights and Women’s rights programs at Human Rights Watch.

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Elon Musk & ‘X’ Are Dangers to Society

Elon Musk is officially a danger to society. As of mid May of 2024, X.com, the platform formerly known as Twitter, has started banning accounts that use the word “cisgender” or “cis,” deriding it as a slur. For those who don’t know, “cisgender” refers to any person whose gender aligns with the genitalia they were assigned at birth. Erasing the word “cisgender” from tweets, or X.com remarks, ensures that gender nonconforming people can’t articulate the bigotry they feel in this world. 

Musk has been notorious for his transphobia. It didn’t just start in mid-May of this year. In June of 2023, during Pride month, Musk liked a bunch of transphobic tweets. For instance, he promoted the Matt Walsh documentary, “What is a Woman?”, which was a film in transmisogyny. 

Moreover, in July of 2022, Musk’s transgender teenage daughter sought separation from her father because he was hateful toward her and bullied her because of her gender identity. In December 2022, Musk tweeted “My pronouns are Prosecute/Fauci,” mocking the words that transgender people need to enunciate who we are. This wasn’t the first time that Musk mocked pronouns. 

Musk is becoming increasingly dangerous toward trans people, especially as X.com takes on a new dimension — turning into a warped platform that spews conspiracy views, including right-wing thoughts that trans people shouldn’t exist, and other ultraconservative opinions. 

What adds heavy weight to the danger that Musk poses is the relative success of his companies and the wealth, measured in dollars, that he carries on his shoulders. SpaceX is valued at around $180 billion, and Tesla is worth approximately $571 billion. The more wealth Musk accumulates, the more power is attached to his transphobia. Already, he is consciously allowing employees within his companies to mock transgender people. Having a CEO who openly teases a marginalized population is a recipe for that company to tease said population as well. 

As a former small business owner, I’m actually a huge fan of Musk’s work. The billionaire is brilliant beyond belief, and, after being bullied in school in South Africa, earned degrees in physics and economics from the University of Pennsylvania. At one point, he was working so hard on one of his first startups that he often slept in the office and showered at a local YMCA. In interviews, it is clear that Musk borders, if not embodies, genius. His intellectual prowess is second to none. 

Additionally, the mogul has been open about his diagnosis of Asperger’s syndrome and bipolar disorder. It’s impressive, to say the least, that Musk has racked up all of these accomplishments despite having these diseases of the mind and body. He has vocalized his use of ketamine therapy, for instance, in treating his bipolar, which is a ballsy move to make as CEO. 

Unfortunately, though, Musk just won’t stop with his transphobia. He is making X.com a non-democratic place for sponsored conspiratorial speech, and banning words is the farthest thing from freedom, which is a virtue he claims to embody. 

Many scholars of Elon have noted that he lives in a distorted reality, and I have to agree with that sentiment. Banning “cisgender” from X.com is certainly a distorted thing to do, and should be looked upon as a danger to society. 

Isaac Amend is a writer based in the D.C. area. With two poetry books out, he writes for the Blade and the Yale Daily News. He is a transgender man and was featured in National Geographic’s “Gender Revolution” documentary. He serves on the board of the LGBT Democrats of Virginia. Contact him at isaac.amend35@gmail.com or on Instagram at: @literatipapi. 

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Are raids on LGBTQ bars making a comeback in 2024?

There’s been a noticeable uptick in police harassment since 2023, that began with legislators proposing bills aimed at LGBTQ people. More recently police and other public officials have seemingly gone out of their way to target the LGBTQ community. This includes spaces in “red states,” like Missouri where police officers arrested the owners of Bar:PM (a leather bar in St. Louis) after they wrecked their police cruiser into it. “Blue states” however, are not immune to this — as was the case in Seattle where authorities raided The Cuff and The Seattle Eagle citing them for “lewd conduct” because of a bartender’s exposed nipple, and patrons wearing jockstraps.

As many LGBTQ activists are already aware, federal policymakers have been enacting legislation at the local and federal level targeting the LGBTQ community. Among those at the federal level is the Kids Online Safety Act (KOSA), a bill introduced by Sen. Richard Blumenthal in May of 2023. Endorsed by President Joe Biden, the bill is a bipartisan initiative to “protect” kids from harmful content online by placing a responsibility on online social media platforms to regulate content and services. Republicans have noted, if passed, the bill would be used to protect “minor children from the Transgender [sic] in this culture and that influence.”

While KOSA seems to have stalled, despite urging from the Biden administration to pass it, some states have begun passing their own versions of the bill — or by enforcing laws at LGBTQ venues like The Cuff in Seattle. Utah’s obscenity laws has even caused PornHub to pull out of states passing these laws, due to their vagueness.

While some may dismiss these concerns as overblown, it seems clear that it is only one part of a larger strategy aimed at curtailing LGBTQ expression. The irony is that those espousing “freedom” are the same ones passing censorship laws. This gradual ratchet effect, which began last summer by targeting children’s books and LGBTQ persons online, has now shifted into something targeting LGBTQ institutions. It’s the same rhetoric used in the 1960s—which included government produced propaganda directed at LGBTQ people painting them as a social contagion dangerous to kids. At the height of this moral panic were laws prohibiting positive depictions of LGBTQ persons, the impact of which is still being felt today through stereotypes and negative framing.  

Even in states that aren’t adding to this moral panic, KOSA has provided the framework by which states can pass vague “obscenity” laws that appear neutral, but in practice are aimed at LGBTQ people. Structural forms of discrimination also exist online as social media platforms act as determiners of what is allowable under their guidelines. In reality, moderation disproportionality impacts LGBTQ people, and especially trans women online. According to a  recent study, content moderation against trans people was roughly five times more to occur than cisgender counterparts. These facts and figures resonate with trans content creators we spoke with, like Polly People who was recently de-platformed for “inappropriate attire” — the same attire that is promoted by cisgender women on the same platform.

Whether it’s jockstrap night at the local leather bar, trans content creators trying to express themselves, or protests of expressions of sexuality at Pride or events at Folsom, we are quickly descending into an age of marginalization that many LGBTQ people haven’t experienced since before Stonewall. While some of the established forms of collective organizing and community have been forgotten or lost, new forms are emerging to fight against these laws and regulations designed to further marginalize and render invisible the lives of LGBTQ Americans.

Christopher T. Conner is assistant professor of Sociology at the University of Missouri. They are author of numerous scholarly publications, including ‘The Gayborhood: From Sexual Revolution to  Cosmopolitan Spectacle.’ Fletcher Jackson is a senior undergraduate student at the University of Missouri, Columbia in Religious Studies and are co-teaching a class in spring 2024. Their research is at the intersection of psychology, spirituality, and queer visibility.

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I lived unapologetically as a Black gay man in the 70s. Now I’m aging with pride & dignity.

The year: 1969. Man landed on the moon, the Beatles gave their last concert on top of the Apple building in London, and we mourned Judy Garland’s death. But most notable for me was the Stonewall Uprising on June 28.

As a gay African-American man, I am an activist and a pioneer. I have experienced some of the brightest and darkest highlights of LGBTQ history. So much has changed and I know my generation has made a significant contribution to the growth and positive changes. My mantra: “I’m living my best life!”

The year of the Stonewall Uprising, I was beginning my studies at Parsons School of Design. It was a turning point in my life. I felt equipped to leave my family nest and ready to be independent, a trait that was instilled in me at an early age.

As soon as I arrived in New York, the city was swarming with so much energy that it was hard to contain myself. New York City has always been a significant influence on gay life, art, music, fashion, commerce, and innovations on all fronts. I took some time to discover myself during those years, learning to navigate the city and indulge in self-expression.

The diversity of New York is something I have always loved. In fact, it was the openness and freedom of expression that led me to accept my sexuality. I gradually acclimated to my new life and adventures, only later realizing what an accomplishment it was to move to New York City and succeed at the tender age of 18.

As a textile designer and artist in the Garment District, I continued to take drawing classes at the Leslie-Lohman Museum of Art to keep my skills sharp. While in the workforce, I complied to corporate standards in the workplace to be taken seriously and avoid discrimination. But even so, I accepted my truth and began to live unapologetically as a gay African-American man.

One of the hard truths I had to learn – and something many people still refuse to acknowledge – is that the LGBTQ community has always been splintered and separated. I made it a point to nurture friendships with young gay people, mostly people of color. Most of my gay and bi friends attended venues that attracted people like me, where nightlife was flourishing and the creative community thrived. We saw diverse venues like David’s Loft in Manhattan, the first private dance club, as well as Andre’s, Jays, and the Big Apple in Harlem, all catering to people of color. I saw the 70’s as a “Golden Age” of gay life and freedom of self-expression.

Overwhelmed with a thirst for knowledge and enthusiasm to discover more about the LGBTQ experience, I moved to Berlin, Germany, in 1979. I was influenced by many Black figures who paved the way, including Josephine Baker, Richard Wright, and James Baldwin. Moving to another country allowed me to escape racial disparities back home.

I was emboldened to continue advocating for LGBTQ people of color, which became crucial as we were hit with the HIV/AIDS epidemic. As a result of attending so many funerals weekly, I became exhausted and fearful for my own health. I moved back to the U.S., making the best of my time in the Midwest professionally, but also prioritized being an advocate for HIV/AIDS and the LGBTQ community as a whole.

Together, gays and lesbians organized community events, prepared meals, and initiated housing projects for suffering people who had been on the street. Fundraisers were held to raise money for those in need. Organizations like AmfAR (the Foundation for Aids Research) made their debut, as well as the drag ball Night of a Thousand Gowns and the Design Industry Foundation for AIDS. The late great Larry Kramer founded Gay Men’s Health Crisis and ACT UP, two organizations that changed the narrative in New York City and the world, invoking lifesaving solutions and resources for the LGBTQ community.

In 1995, the introduction of protease inhibitors – drugs that impede the spread of the virus – added longevity to a generation that did not expect to survive.

Returning to New York in the early 2000s and having reached my 50th birthday, I began to think about how I was beginning this stage in my life. My generation of LGBTQ folks have now become elders, with organizations like SAGE helping us age with dignity.

As we age, there are challenges in housing, healthcare, and other life support systems for our cohort. Many of us do not have families and face discrimination and isolation because of our sexual orientation, making LGBTQ elder support groups critical. I remain an advocate for older adults so we can keep our independence as we age.

As I continue to share my experiences before and after 50 years of Stonewall activism, I age with pride and dignity.

Alston Green is a longtime activist and fighter in social justice and LGBTQ movements. A creative thinker and a passionate spokesperson, Alston has worked with the Intergenerational Media Literacy program with Senior Planet (OATS) and SAGE – two organizations that offer aging adults an opportunity to explore, learn, mingle and renew their passions, to keep abreast of the ever changing world of digital technology and how it impacts everyone’s lives daily.

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BLACK HISTORY MONTH; Darling, you’re a masterpiece: The unequivocal beauty of being Black & queer

In the dazzling spectacle of Black History Month, we strut down the runway of celebration, draped in the richness of our heritage. 

But wait, cue the music, because, for some of us, there’s an unexpected wardrobe malfunction – the clash of being both Black and queer. Let’s unpack this sartorial crisis, shall we?

Queer and Black: a double whammy of fabulousness

As we revel in the glory of Blackness, let’s not forget the glittering rhinestones that adorn the Queer community. But, darling, statistics paint a rather somber picture. 

In the vibrant tapestry of Black identity, the intersectionality of being both Black and Queer adds layers of complexity to one’s self-discovery and societal acceptance. 

As we immerse ourselves in the month that proudly celebrates Blackness, it becomes imperative to delve into the profound duality experienced by individuals navigating both realms of identity. A 2019 report from the Human Rights Campaign revealed that 44% of Black LGBTQ+ youth seriously consider suicide. That’s a statistic that should make even the sturdiest wig stand on end.

Breaking chains or forging shackles? The identity crisis drama

Society loves to play director, casting us into roles that don’t quite fit our script. Enter the unnecessary identity crisis – a showstopper that leaves us questioning our very existence. 

During a month dedicated to the celebration of Black history, there’s an undeniable surge of pride that resonates within the Black community. It’s a time to honor the resilience, achievements, and rich cultural heritage that define the essence of being Black. 

However, for those who are also proudly queer, this celebration can evoke a sense of conflict, as societal norms often impose restrictive expectations on the coexistence of these identities. 

It’s like being told you can’t pair red wine with fish. Well, excuse me while I enjoy my Merlot with a side of salmon and societal norms with a pinch of skepticism.

Navigating the healing runway

Societal pressures can instigate an unnecessary identity crisis, compelling individuals to question their authenticity and belonging within their own community. 

The struggle arises from external prejudices and internalized notions that suggest a paradox between being Black and queer. This conflict can lead to feelings of isolation, self-doubt, and a desperate quest for acceptance, hindering the celebration of the holistic self. 

How do we mend these fabulous but frayed seams of identity? First up, affirmation – because darling, you’re a masterpiece, not a discount rack find. Surround yourself with a squad that gets it; share stories, laugh, and slay together. 

Educate the masses – our existence is not an avant-garde concept; it’s a reality. As the wise Beyoncé once said, “Your self-worth is determined by you. You don’t have to depend on someone telling you who you are.”

Promoting inclusivity: the runway remix

The Black community has its own runway, but it’s time to extend that catwalk to all its fabulous members. 

Advocate for inclusivity. Because diversity isn’t just a buzzword; it’s the key to a more vibrant and united community. It’s time to hijack the runway, darling. Black community, listen up – the catwalk is long, but it’s time we expand it to embrace all the fierce folks in our midst. 

Inclusivity is not just a slogan; it’s a revolution, and we’re the damn generals. 

As we twirl in the spotlight of Black History Month, let’s set this stage on fire. Let’s not just rewrite the script; burn it and dance on the ashes. We’re Black, we’re Queer, and we’re fabulous AF. Embrace the complexity, challenge the norms, and let’s leave this read not just inspired but ready to throw down. It’s time to break these damn chains and own our narrative.

Strut into the spotlight

So, in this Black History Month, let’s rewrite the script. Let’s dance to the rhythm of our own fabulous beat. As we celebrate our Blackness, let’s remember that being queer is not a costume change; it’s a dazzling layer of authenticity. 

As we navigate the duality of being both Black and queer, the journey toward healing involves breaking free from societal constraints and embracing the full spectrum of one’s identity. In the month dedicated to celebrating Blackness, let us strive for a community that recognizes and cherishes the richness found in every intersection of identity. 

Through understanding, dialogue, and collective empowerment, we can foster an environment where every Black individual, regardless of their sexual orientation, feels seen, heard, and celebrated. Embrace the complexity, challenge the norms, and strut into the spotlight as the unapologetically fabulous intersectional beings we are.

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Understanding trans identity from a therapy perspective

The trans identity has been written about extensively from a political perspective. Many columns in the Blade, and other outlets, speak of gender ID laws, barriers in trans healthcare, pronouns, trans representation in state legislatures and eventually Congress, and the legality of offering trans children hormone blockers, among other treatments. 

While speaking of politics can be good, it’s equally important to understand trans lives from the perspective of someone with a social work degree — or, in other words, from an emotional and therapeutic perspective. 

Trans people, simply put, face many emotional barriers in life that others usually don’t have to encounter. Let me list several here. I don’t have an MSW, but will try my best to articulate these problems in detail. 

First and foremost, trans people face lots of change: change in personality, change in appearance, change in passing versus not passing. Whether we like it or not, change invariably means that we have to act differently in the environments that surround us, and when we change as people, we also have to change our behavior and relationships with others. I like to tell friends this saying: “Change is inherently uncomfortable, and change is painful. Moving from one place in life to another means there is lots of growth, but also room for lots of loneliness when you have reached a new personal destination.” 

As someone who changed from being a cis female to a man who fully passes as one — and never gets mistaken as trans — this transformation invariably affected my relationships with others. Suddenly, I was expected to make friends with other cis men, some straight, and forming these new relationships took lots of work and necessitated more personal growth. While change can be good, it is also hard, and few others know what it feels like to have to shuffle friendships. 

The second emotional barrier trans people face is one that is almost instantly recognizable: our love lives. To be very frank, trans men often go from being an object of sexual desire, as cis females, to being men who repulse many people away. Others view our bodies as disgusting and something to avoid. Many lesbians like to avoid trans men and think that sleeping with us is some form of betrayal to their own community. If trans men are interested in men, we face the problem of wanting to sleep with people who statistically assault us more, and can be violent and degrading to our bodies. Trans people also sleep with people who want to keep our dalliances secret, which shames us into thinking that our bodies are not something to be proud of, but rather monstrous things that can only exist underneath the sheets, and not outside of bedroom doors. 

The third emotional hurdle trans people face is that of passing: some of us pass extremely well, but others don’t. There is conflict within the trans community between those who pass and those who don’t. Some in the community view passing as another sign of betrayal to those of our own kin: trans men who pass fully as men are often excluded from queer events or groups. Cis people might think that it’s a choice for us to pass well, when in reality passing is often a result of genetics, as people with thicker jaw lines and more muscle can naturally adopt the other gender better. Passing is a source of envy and jealousy, and ignites fault lines within our community, when in reality, we need less rupture in our community in order to survive as one whole group. 

The fourth emotional obstacle trans people face is job security, and managing emotions in the workplace. As a transman who passes well and is never mistaken for gender nonconforming, I can say firsthand that it is easy to never have to talk about being trans at a job. In fact, it usually serves us well to not talk about our transness in career settings, as gender variance is something that cruelly detracts from our career prospects, and rarely adds to career growth. Unfortunately, most workplaces are laden with colleagues — usually male, and usually older — who are transphobic to some extent. Navigating these difficult relationships requires a lot of emotional labor that can otherwise be put into finishing memos, leading meetings, and scaling the corporate ladder. But instead, we’re left to fight old crusty men in cubicles. 

There are many more emotional hurdles we face, which can be described in other columns. As stated, it is critical to understand trans lives through an emotional lens, comprehending the difficult feelings we face with friendships, romantic relationships, and other facets of daily existence. 

Isaac Amend (he/him/his) is a trans man and young professional in the D.C. area. He was featured on National Geographic’s ‘Gender Revolution’ in 2017 as a student at Yale University. Amend is also on the board of the LGBT Democrats of Virginia. Find him on Instagram @isaacamend.

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I identify as both trans masculine & a butch lesbian. Here’s why those aren’t the same.

There’s a common misconception from cis folks (primarily those outside the LGBTQ+ community) that butch lesbians and trans masculine folks are the same – or at least two sides of the same coin. It cannot be stated firmly enough that this isn’t a simple or fundamental truth. Trans-masc people aren’t women who happen to be masculine, and butch lesbians aren’t automatically trying to be men. They’re two separate identities. 

Aside from the transphobic tendency to see both groups of people as “women trying to be men,” I think the misconception is rooted in the idea that your level of masculine presentation determines your gender. 

Related:

But it doesn’t.

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Gender identity and gender performance are like cake and icing – the inside isn’t automatically the same flavor as the outside. 

When you’re nonbinary and genderfluid like I am, things get more complicated. The inside and the outside are constantly changing. If you don’t embrace it, you’ll become the world’s most stressed-out baker, or you’ll end up settling for something that feels “right enough.”

I spent years trying to pin down a consistent inner gender and outer presentation. From high school on, I tried on every identity I came across, waiting for something to finally feel like me. Even when I finally figured out that nonbinary was the best way to describe myself, I was still frustrated. While presenting as androgynous sometimes felt right, there were also times it didn’t. 

I had done all of this work for all of those years and still didn’t feel at home in my body or identity. 

I wish I could say I figured out the solution to my problem all at once. It was a painfully slow evolution, spurred by spending time with other trans folks and falling in love with someone who truly understood the nuances of my identity.

Eventually, I realized I was just trying to shove myself into another box. Instead of embracing the freedom of being outside the binary, I was trying to make myself fit within the identity itself, down to the archetypal image of a thin, white, androgynous person with short hair. 

A consistent gender presentation (or icing flavor, if you will)  just wasn’t going to happen for me. Instead, I would start picking up and putting on whatever bits and pieces of labels felt good. It was like sticker bombing my water bottle or sewing patches on my jacket – a completely customizable experience, drawn only from my own tastes and desires. 

I found that I actually really enjoyed using he/him pronouns, and I gleefully updated my private profiles to show my pronouns were he/they (I still go by just they/them in a professional context – it’s easier this way).

That’s how I came to realize I could both be trans masc and a butch lesbian – two things I previously thought to be incongruent. I used to hate being seen as butch because I thought it invalidated my identity as a trans masculine nonbinary person. I thought it meant I wasn’t passing well enough. 

But embracing it, allowing myself to have it all, brings me unique euphoria. Recently, I added the (sometimes) controversial identity of femboy into the mix as well. All of these things aren’t the same, but I live in the places where they overlap. They are different ways for me to engage with my femininity, masculinity, and androgyny all at once. It’s how I find the joy of being trans. 

To me, being trans masculine means letting previously hidden parts of me run wild. It means being the dad friend, daydreaming about my eventual sea-horse-themed baby shower, and eagerly anticipating the time in my life that I’ll be celebrated on Father’s Day. 

Being butch is a similar but different feeling. It’s the same warm embrace of masculinity, while at the same time relishing in the butch/femme dynamic my girlfriend and I share. It’s finding euphoria in a carabiner of keys dangling from my belt loop and not criticizing the way my unbound chest looks in a tank top and flannel.

In identifying as a butch he/him lesbian, I sometimes run into TERFs. These are “trans-exclusionary radical feminists” that think nonbinary and trans masculine people cannot be lesbians because they aren’t woman. I’ve had folks tell me that I shouldn’t be on dating platforms like HER because my pronouns and overlapping trans masculine identity isn’t what they’re looking for and makes them uncomfortable. To that, I say, swipe left if you can’t handle it.

Transphobic rhetoric aside, I’d argue that personally, my love is inherently sapphic. As someone with a deep love for women and nonbinary people and a general romantic disinterest in men, I see myself as a sapphic bisexual, regardless of my ever-shifting gender identity. 

As for being a femboy, this allows me to engage with my masculine identity while embracing my femininity. It’s aligning myself with people who identify as men in one way or another, but it doesn’t close the door to all things “girly.” It allows me to enjoy being feminine and admire my natural features without giving myself dysphoria. 

Butch and trans masc will never inherently be the same. However, there are those of us who dance all over these lines with glee. We wear each identity like a new layer in a gaudy but industrious outfit, relishing in the confused looks of gender (and fashion) purists. 

The entire point of gender is nuance. I’m nonbinary because I can’t fit into any box, no matter how expansive. I’m dancing all over the lines, and my arms are open, welcoming anyone who wants to join me. 

Gender can be a battlefield or a playground. I choose the latter. There is no possible way for me to both accept myself and follow a strict set of rules for my gender. 

I don’t write this to defend myself. I don’t owe anyone an explanation. Instead, I write this to invite you to broaden your understanding of the true joy of being trans and to encourage you to embrace it yourself. 

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Trans community demands lawmakers end onslaught of attacks

 enjoy living in Kansas. Specifically, Lawrence, Kansas, where I can attend a watercolor painting class at the local plant shop on Wednesday, the weekly drag show on Thursday, and a vintage clothing pop-up on Friday. But despite the beauty of the rolling Flint Hills, there is something ugly happening in the place I call home. Growing hostility towards the transgender and non-binary community is being codified through policies and perpetuated through violence that threatens our basic human rights. 

Rights activists see such rollbacks of hard-fought progress spreading across the US, and we’re bracing for new attacks that will test the country’s purported commitment to equality. The fight is the most grueling for those of us who are from Black and other marginalized communities. 

In the last year, violence claimed the lives of at least 25 transgender and gender non-conforming people in the US, with violence disproportionately affecting Black transgender women. These numbers are most likely underrepresented, as attacks against the LGBTQ+ community often go undocumented.

Black and Brown trans people should be able to live as their most authentic self without fear of transphobic violence and discrimination. 

To add to the growing animus, some states chose to attack transgender rights through legislation rather than protect them. This past June, the Human Rights Campaign, an LGBTQ+ advocacy group, declared a state of emergency after more than 500 anti-LGBTQ+ bills were introduced in 41 states. Hundreds of these bills specifically targeted transgender people. 

Some of these anti-LGBTQ+ bills would limit the ability to update gender information on identity documents like driver’s licenses and birth certificates, weaken nondiscrimination laws and protections in employment, and restrict free speech and expression through book and drag performance bans. State bills also attempt to restrict access to medically necessary health care including bans on gender-affirming care for trans youth, prohibit access to public accommodations like public bathrooms, and prevent trans students from participating in school activities like sports. While introducing a bill doesn’t mean it will pass, 84 of these draconian measures made it out of committee and have been signed into law.

Even the introduction of these bills perpetuates harmful stigmas and allows misinformation to spread. I have witnessed how harmful the introduction of these bills has been on members of the trans community I am a part of. In Kansas, 14 anti-LGBTQ+ bills were introduced and four were passed into law in the last legislative session. During that time, my trans friends and peers pleaded with conservative lawmakers to respect their dignity and protect their autonomy over their own bodies. Medical experts testified that the mere act of introducing these bills causes great harm to the mental health of transgender people across the state.

One bill, misnamed the Women’s Bill of Rights though it limits protections for transgender women, passed and went into effect on July 1st.  In response, LGBTQ+ activists in Lawrence refused to rest until the City Commission enacted a sanctuary city ordinance, increasing protections for trans people. Despite the immense fear transgender people were feeling in this moment, their message rang loud and clear: LGBTQ+ people have the right to live without fear, and we are not going anywhere.

Make no mistake, allowing anti-LGBTQ+ legislation to be passed sends a message that legitimizes homophobic and transphobic sentiment.  

There are some hopeful signs. Legislation to outlaw the LGBTQ+ panic defense was introduced in nine states as well as in the US House and Senate this year. Under that defense, people charged with violent crime against LGBTQ+ people can get a reduced sentence or evade criminal liability by stating that the victim’s real or perceived sexual orientation or gender identity prompted the violent act. 

As violence against the LGBTQ+ community continues to increase, it is important now more than ever for lawmakers in statehouses across the country and for the federal government to strengthen protections for trans people and especially for the most vulnerable members of this community—Black and Brown trans women. Lawmakers should be recognizing and protecting LGBTQ+ people’s equal dignity under the law. Legislators should support active efforts to quell discrimination, like Kansas’s HB 2178, and codify LGBTQ+ protections. The US Government should also meet its human rights obligations to respond to foreseeable threats to life and bodily integrity, and to address patterns of violence targeting the LGBTQ+ community.

While activists continue to fight for LGBTQ+ liberation, I am reminded to celebrate the small wins. I remain hopeful when I see young LGBTQ+ people organizing and exercising their right to protest in the name of egalitarianism.  They remind me that pride is not something solely limited to the month of June, but a badge of honor we always carry with us.

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Bria Nelson is a Researcher and Advocate on Racial Justice and Equity Issues with the Human Rights Watch U.S. Program.  Bria is an attorney and concentrates their research on racial justice and equity issues across the U.S., with a particular focus on reparations for enslavement and its legacies. 

As a movement lawyer, Bria has also worked to mobilize response and advocacy after the public murder of George Floyd, including undergoing an intensive fellowship training program with Law for Black Lives, an organization focused on grounding movements in Black queer feminism, abolition, and anticapitalism.

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Banning books: The greatest scheme to get kids to read again

Don’t touch that hot stove! Don’t pull the dog’s tail! Don’t say bad words! Tell a kid that they can’t do something and what’s the normal response? Do it. Why? Because your parents, the commanders of your universe, told you not to not to do it (which is the simultaneous birthplace of both your curiosity and independence). Don’t they remember being a kid — and that delicious wanting to know what’s on the other side of “Don’t?”

One of my greatest joys as an author is to inspire kids to read. Books were my curiosity creators and my independence days, dreaming up entire universes of imagination and possibility, all within this hand-held, human-made wonder.

But being told “Don’t read that book.” Or better yet, ban it. Huh? Why?

You — the book banners of the world— have now unleashed one of the oldest unintentional human marketing schemes since the dawn of kids. The “Don’t.” You have done the one thing you can’t do to kids — make something mysterious or forbidden. And now they want to read the book you have banned. I’m sure this was not your intention but, nonetheless, you have unleashed the good intentions behind the power of “Don’t.” Because if the book you’re banning contains forbidden or mysterious information that adults don’t want you to read, it must be worth reading. Taboo sells.

So, to all book banners, thank you.

Banning books? The Greatest Marketing Scheme to get Kids to Read Books Again . . .

Book banners: You are now in the marketing business. Your motto should be, “Books your parents don’t want you to read.” Brilliant. That will seal the deal. Why did “1984” become a bestseller again? Because it was banned again.

And all those obscure books you’re ferreting out to ban? Now you’re really helping to put them on the map, and even making them bestsellers again. Some are books that maybe a few kids might have read, if at all. Now kids — and parents — want to read them because you say not to read them. Brilliant marketing and marvelous adult logic.

The 10-Million Pound Elephant in the Room is the Internet. If you’re scared of the books in the library, you should be horrified at the Internet. You think that banning books about identity, sexuality, racism, slavery, or finger painting is going to stop a kid from wanting to know — if they want to know more? Nope. Now they can turn to your worst nightmare — the Internet. Because most likely what they’ll encounter on the web is absolutely everything you don’t want them to see or hear in the most graphic ways you can and can’t imagine. If nature abhors a vacuum, then curiosity abhors knowledge that’s locked up.

By banning a book, you are choosing to decide my own — and everyone else’s — reading destiny. Freedom is not about taking one’s choice away. It’s about allowing more choices. It’s trusting us to figure it out all on our very own. And the liberty to choose what to read — or not.

Taking away a book that’s offensive offends me. Books are easy to bully. You can find anything in any book you want to be offended by and that’s the ultimate slippery slope of book banning. Heck, you can even be offended by “The Cat in the Hat” or “Winnie the Pooh” if you’re so inclined. But fundamentally when you ban a book, you take away my freedom to be offended by something I may want to read — or not. And that’s offensive.

What are we teaching our kids? Fear. Fear is what we teach our kids when we don’t want them to know. Banning books is about banning knowledge. And when we don’t trust them with knowledge, we lose our ability — and respect to talk. Because fear loves secrecy. It thrives on lack of communication — the worst thing you can do with kids who are trying to figure out the world. It’s so much better to talk with them about ideas that they’re curious about because they’ll find out anyway — and maybe not in a responsible, mature way.

What should we teach our kids? Trust. Let’s trust our kids to explore. To be curious. And give them the freedom to be curious. That’s the most powerful form of liberty for kids.

Our job as parents is to teach our kids where knowledge fits into their world. How to question it and how to use it — or not use it. The freedom to learn, to question, to comprehend, to converse, and to do it over and over again is one of the greatest legacies that books continue to give the world, and nobody can take that liberty and legacy away from us.

Carew Papritz is the award-winning author of the bestselling inspirational book, ‘The Legacy Letters.’ Through his innovative literacy efforts to inspire kids to read, Papriz has created the ‘I Love to Read’ and ‘First-Ever Book Signings’ through his ‘CarewTube’ video series.

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Organizing in a Time of Anxiety: Taking Inspiration From the Gay Men’s Health Crisis

We often feel duty-bound to tackle everything from a worsening climate catastrophe to systemic racism, economic inequality, global humanitarian crises, public health emergencies, rampant corporate greed and the potential threat of authoritarianism, just to name a few. It can be not only daunting, but also downright exhausting to face the challenges inherent in fighting for a more just and peaceful world.

At the same time, we’re organizers precisely because we want to make progress on intractable problems, and we know the solutions lie in the communities more directly impacted. In the midst of moments that feel hopeless – where it’s easy to slip into despair or inaction – we can instead use proven tools to spark action.

So, where to begin? It often takes multiple, aligned strategies to win meaningful change, and, as we point out in our book, Practical Radicals, context matters when you’re considering the best strategies to advance your vision. While some organizers may need to stop and take a bigger, long-term view before launching their efforts, others might need to hit the ground running to begin building a deep and diverse base of supporters. Drawing on our combined six decades of experience in movement building and organizing for progressive causes, we wrote our book to offer organizers some guidance in this fraught moment and to help them identify the strategies they need to win. Along the way, we dive into approaches used by dozens of other organizers past and present to show why strategy is vital to building and sustaining any movement for change. 

One of the efforts we zeroed in on can be summed up as “how people make change when things are as terrible as they can be.” The Gay Men’s Health Crisis (GMHC) was founded in 1982 as the AIDS crisis had begun to devastate gay communities from New York to San Francisco and everywhere in between. GMHC exemplifies the strategy for social change we call collective care: efforts by an oppressed group to meet its own needs for survival and safety, often when the state fails to meet urgent human needs.

GMHC focused on education on HIV and prevention, supportive care for those who were sick and policy advocacy – work that ultimately laid the foundation for the emergence of more militant action later. Volunteers led and created an astonishing array of programs including GMHC’s signature “buddy program” where ten thousand volunteers were placed with total strangers in their homes to provide practical daily help, compassionate care and emotional support. 

GMHC built trust, took risks and built care infrastructure with a political goal in mind: ending the AIDS crisis and uprooting homophobia. They rooted their policy advocacy in the experience of the people they were serving, as former volunteer-turned-leader David Hansell told us. GMHC moved the ball forward in ways that the movement’s direct action side couldn’t, but a collective-care group could. An example is how GMHC built bridges to important stakeholders like leaders in the Catholic Church who – despite their appalling hostility toward gay communities during the crisis – were critical to passing policies to support people with AIDS and could be won over on a tactical basis. 

As former GMHC executive director Tim Sweeney said, “We bent the arc of the pandemic. We changed it. We didn’t bring an end to it, unfortunately, which is what our goal was, but we definitely saved millions of people.”

Collective care is a vastly underappreciated but essential element for social change movements. It strengthens solidarity by building trust and relationships that can be harnessed for political action. When care is embedded in the culture of an organization, it increases the capacity of ordinary people to engage in struggle and of organizers to stay in the movement for the long term. 

Collective care strategies, like disruptive movements, often emerge as a response to crises and tragedies, particularly when governments are failing to meet the moment. When it feels like the world is ending, as it did for queer people in the darkest days of the AIDS crisis, sometimes the only thing you can do is turn toward each other and care for one another. In such circumstances, collective care can be a form of both survival and strategy. 

And we know change doesn’t happen overnight. Like so many movements for transformative change, the AIDS crisis presented upsurges of intense activity between slow periods of frustration and even defeat. Landmark AIDS legislation wasn’t passed until 1990, eight years after GMHC’s founding, and there was still important work left to do. Movements need stamina, which is where care becomes not only helpful but also essential to staying in the fight.

This is all why you see elements of collective care strategies present in many different organizing lineages, including parts of the Black radical tradition, mutual aid, feminism, disability justice, labor, environmental, immigrant rights, and Indigenous traditions. And it operates alongside other, important strategies to win, like changing the narrative and engaging in disruptive action.

GMHC is emblematic of many movements for change that show that, even amidst periods of rage and despair, the world is full of generosity and kindness. By looking back, we can find the inspiration to move forward. Our movement ancestors show us that there is always a strategic and humane response available to us, even in the darkest times. They rose to the challenge of taking care of one another and our shared planet in circumstances even more challenging than we face today.

In the spirit of that history, every organizer needs to be rooted in lineage. You can find strength in generations of organizers who left us tools and strategies – including, notably, how to build and care in dark times – that we can renew and adapt to change the world.

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